


Scar Tissue

by circumlucent



Category: London Spy
Genre: Airtighting (Mentioned), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Cutting, Food Deprivation, Food Issues, Frustration, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Memories, Naked Male Clothed Male, Neck Kissing, Panic Attacks, Pillow Talk, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reinvention, Repressed Memories, Reunion Sex, Reunions, Scars, Starting Over, Trigger words, neck kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-10 12:58:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15292038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circumlucent/pseuds/circumlucent
Summary: It’s not true that scar tissue loses sensitivity: skin is not replaced by a sensory blank, but it gets used to trauma. Skin is a witness: it remembers everything.





	1. Chapter 1

He once had a colleague who got a wrist surgical operation. When she went back to work, bandages removed, there it was: a line running down her forearm. Thin, red, stitches still visible. Day after day, he checked her scar. Witnessing how it changed, in colour and texture, was captivating. The redness soon turned into bright pinkness, into paleness, into fleshness, but he knew it was still there. It’s not true that scar tissue loses sensitivity: skin is not replaced by a sensory blank, but it gets used to trauma. Skin is a witness: it remembers everything.  
He didn't have any visible scars but one ran through his insides. It started in his skull and went down through his body - his hands, his chest, the ribcage, his groin, his legs - down to his ankles. It often hurt and demanded attention, which he rarely allowed. Surrendering to that pull was a luxury he could rarely afford. It happened at night, when he spent most of his sleepless hours sitting in the veranda, the lights of the city blinking and pulsing in the distance, down Hampstead Heath. Only when he decided to let his mind wander, it happened. He gave himself the permission to call his inner scar by its name: Alex.

By day he faked: he was a respectable citizen, a functioning adult who was able to establish healthy interactions with those around him. He had actually reduced interactions to a minimum, but he passed as moderately outgoing, not prone to social events but not an outcast either. He liked talking to his colleagues at the library and to the UCL students who spent their evenings studying. At first, working at Senate House seemed a joke from destiny: walking the marble corridors, passing the security controls without a care, being in charge, were alien experiences, but he soon got used to them. Years had passed since his career started there and he had no intention to change. Routine gave him roots. He always worked the late shift, so he could avoid being home alone. To the students, he was the lanky librarian who didn't like starting a conversation; once prompted, he didn’t get exactly chatty but had to fulfil his need to belong.

The yellowish lights out of his window had a soothing effect on him, and so had the whirring sound of the book carts he pushed down the aisles. His old messed-up self was gone; now he loved order, method, the Dewey Decimal Classification, the John Keats section. He hated mobile phones and social media: he had zero tolerance for those who dared to use them under his watch, and that was a perk of getting old. Not everything was a piece of cake, though: waking up as if he had spent the night at a fight club, bones aching, shoulder and neck muscles clenched, fingers slightly swollen and insensitive, were not exactly goals to achieve, but they made him feel present, alive. His face was changing, too, with wrinkles blossoming on his forehead and around his eyes; silver threads streaked his curly hair, but he didn't care. He didn't eat much, so most of his jeans, tweed coats and crew-neck sweaters hung on him, but he didn't care. Sometimes he felt he was slowly morphing into the friend who, many years ago, had left him the house he was living in. How many years? Fifteen, maybe. Memories were fading at a slow pace, so he was destined to remember for many years to come. In the meantime, the present was lonely. His father had died eight years before; his mother was alive, still living at Rowley Way but he generally visited her only twice a month. People he had known were gone, too: Sara and Pavel had moved to Germany; party friends had disappeared along with the drugs he used to take. He was alone, inner scar hurting, itching and demanding to be called by its name: Alex.

He was a creature of habit: he had his daily rituals and hated unexpected events. Bedtime at 3 am, morning alarm at 10 am, breakfast and radio, shower and chores (he always made his bed now), light lunch, mail collect and nap, grocery shopping at 3 pm, getting ready, leaving house at 5 pm, shift starting at 6 and finishing at the stroke of midnight. He avoided using his computer at home but always checked his mailbox because he loved getting traditional mail. It was mostly bills, documents, flyers, but opening an envelope was thrilling.

One night he was leafing through a handful of mail he had collected in the afternoon, when he saw a small white envelope, his address handwritten. He opened it and his heart sunk: it was a black-bordered card. Someone had died. He looked out of the window and made a mental list of those whom he thought were still alive, those who knew where he lived. One name remained. He read the card and there it was: Frances had died. Her funeral was the following day at Shirburn Castle. The card was probably more an invitation than an announcement, but it made no difference. He locked it away in a drawer of his desk, among letters he had received from her. His life had been a perpetual funeral; he had been living in permanent mourning for years, so this certainly didn't made any difference. He allowed himself a treat, though: for a moment he let his guard down and his memory loose. The Ares statue hidden in the hedge maze, the heavy burden of a lonely childhood, the triumph of numbers over feelings, the defeat of empathic parenting: all this emerged from the fog of the past and caused a stir in his inner scar. It hurt, burnt even. Fifteen years had passed for nothing. Everything was still there, just locked away, well hidden but accessible.


	2. Chapter 2

The following morning he woke up pervaded by a sense of despair. He had dreamt of Frances and premature burials. He remembered the last conversation they had, the last time they met, the ridiculous project they tried to pursue, the complete lack of communication between them after realising that seeking revenge for someone's death was meaningless, because it didn't bring the dead back.  
He spent that day in a strange mood, off focus, distracted. The library remained almost empty all through the evening, so he could replace returned books on their shelves, do a bit of online orders, leaf through new art volume catalogues. He finished drinking his pot of white tea when the clock on his desk - lights blinking - announced it was one minute after midnight. He turned the PC off, packed his things and left the South Wing. The keeper at the entrance was ready to go, too. “Good night, Mr Holt. See you tomorrow,” and he was out. London was shrouded in autumn damp: it was not cold yet, but his bones felt winter was coming. The 40-minute ride was spent in a daze: the bus was almost empty and his heart was heavy. He got home with the unpleasant feeling of a wave of panic surging. “No, not now,” he thought.

He turned the radio on to calm himself down, when someone knocked on the door. The bell was silent, but another knock came. He went to the hall in disbelief. He was afraid even to ask who was there. It was twenty past one and nobody, absolutely nobody on earth could want anything from him at that time of the night.  
He cautiously approached the door and peeked through the glass frame. There was a black car parked by the garage. The wave of panic doubled upon the realisation he knew it. He lost count of the times he had ridden and driven it. It was Frances’ Super Snipe. He was so scared that, as a reaction, he threw the door open on a whim.  
His scar was standing in flesh and blood on the threshold.  
“I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming. Everything is going to crash and burn because this is a nightmare. It's a nightmare. It's not true. Not true. No true:” his mind was reeling, unable to think straight, unable to think. Yet Alex was standing there. Not really the Alex he used to know. Buzzed hair, long beard, all dressed in black, an old scar running above his left collarbone. But his eyes gave him away. The blue innocence was still there, mangled but intact.

“I became just a number, an unfortunate casualty nobody cared for anymore. They took everything from me and turned me into a void. I stopped being an enemy because I stopped being valuable. They rose new victims to their altar - young people, hackers mostly, who could bring them profit, either political or financial. They forgot about me because the world was changing so fast, new balancing acts, new alliances, new leaders. My lie detector became the joke that ultimately set me free. I’ve been living at Shirburn for the last three months. I buried my mother today. She never wanted me to tell you I was alive. ‘He's got a life now. He’s well now. You ruined his life once, I’ll stop you from doing it twice’. But she's dead now. Do you understand? She can't stop me anymore. Do you understand what I’m saying? Danny, do you hear me? Danny! Danny! Are you ok?”.

The first thing he saw when he woke up in the morning was a bottle of Valium on his bedside table. His body was aching worse than ever. His forty-four years weighed on him like a millstone. He checked the time. No wonder the alarm clock was still on: it was only 8 am. He sat in the middle of the bed and massaged his aching shoulder muscles. He walked into the living room wondering why he had taken a Valium, then he saw a black coat draped on the velvet sofa and it all came back. Now he remembered why he had had a full-fledged panic attack. His scar was sitting in the veranda. Alex was real. The dead had come back.  
He stood there, watching the man dressed in black. He could still trace the lines of his body (of the body that he used to know) by memory: the arch in his lower back, the tiny dip on his nose anticipating a long straight line, the curl the ear tragus took, the elegant shape of the calves. What was he supposed to do now? Just go there and strike up a conversation? He had gone through hell for years, torturing himself for losing the only human being who had ever seen him for what he really was. Years of hell, of solitude, of self-loathing and utter despair. He had re-learnt how to live life and now this? Again? He couldn't go through that, not again. Yet he walked into the veranda, wrapped into a plaid robe, and sat down, welcomed by a shy smile.

“When I woke up, I hoped it was a nightmare. I hoped it wasn't real. But you're still here. So I guess you're alive.”

Alex remained silent.

“I want you to leave,” Danny said. He couldn't even look at him. If he wanted to go through with it, he couldn't afford himself to. “It's your turn to start over. I have already done it and you can't take it away from me.”

“I have no intention to. But I have been waiting fifteen years for this...” Alex wanted to protest, but words died in his throat. Danny was cracking and he didn't want to see him suffering like that.

“You're right. I know you've got a new life now. You deserve it,” but he couldn't force himself to stand up and leave.

“I learnt to love books after you died, you know. I had never liked reading but then everything changed. I read all Asimov, you know.” Alex smiled but didn't interrupt him. “I went back to school, took my diploma. Claire helped me find a job.”

“At Senate House. I know.”

Of course he knew.

“I’m a good librarian. I love my job, my boring life, my loneliness, because they're mine.”

“Do you live alone?”

“You should know that,” Danny snapped. “Yes, I’m alone,” he continued. “Because I don't want to invest my time and feelings on anyone. Because I’m the odd librarian who's always silent unless you strike up a conversation with him. Because I’m a former drug addict and whore who pinches his arms and punches his legs to feel something, to prove he's still alive.” He paused. “I don't even know why I’m telling you this. I owe you no explanation.”

Silence lingered above them. Danny broke it again. “I haven't really touched anyone since.”

Alex felt tears gathering in his eyes, but didn't want to cry, not now. He stood up instead and brushed Danny's shoulder with his fingers. “I’m leaving,” he said. He took his coat and was gone. The noise of the door closing was the slab sealing Danny's tomb. Now he was really alone. But he had no choice. He owed that to himself, to his own pain.


	3. Chapter 3

When Alex left, Danny resolutely shut all thoughts out. He needed time to believe and to understand. His old self would have broken into hell to be with the man he loved, but he had fought so much after his death that now he was unable to bring that strength back. Alex’s explanation was pointless to him, he didn't care anymore. But his feelings… Well, that was a different story. He couldn't fool himself and pretend they were not there. But there was more to it: it was like losing grip on some truth you’ve always held on to, after realising it’s not true anymore. The truth he had built his recent life on was no more: Alex was alive. He had buried his mother, left everything behind and run to him. That was a fact he had to acknowledge; that was the point he had to start from, picking up the pieces of the broken lie and starting over, again. Pretending facts were lies so as to make them easier to live with was a dangerous game. Facts were shattering his world: they were painful but they were real. Real like the touch of Alex’s hand on his shoulder. Real like the body under the mourning attire. Real like the fact that he had spent the whole night there, watching over him to keep him safe.

For some days he felt like he was sleepwalking: he was awake but couldn't think clearly. Inside him the shock had turned solid. He acted normal but the face looking back in the mirror hid an unbearable secret. He had no one to talk to, but he knew he couldn't keep it to himself long. He was so lost that one night he called Sara over Skype, which he hated using. Luckily she was online.

“Oh my God! Danny! Is that you?”. She was thrilled to hear from him, but he sensed concern in her voice. She was sitting in a dark kitchen, an infant asleep on her shoulder. “Danny, turn the camera on. I want to see you.”

He did a disgusted smirk but accepted: he looked miserable and didn't want to alarm her.

“Here I am,” he said and smiled bitterly. “You are a wonderful mother, Sara. How old is he?”

“He’s two months old and has turned me into a zombie. Danny, honey, are you OK? What's happened? I haven't heard from you for weeks.”

There was a knot in his throat that barely let air pass. “No, I’m not that well. Something happened and…”, the knot was getting tighter. “I have no one here to talk to.”

“Don't worry. You can always talk to me, you know that. What's going on? Do you feel like telling me?”

“Yeah, of course.” He tried to swallow. “Alex is back. He is still alive.”

“Alive? Are you sure? How is it possible?”. She held a hand on her mouth in disbelief. 

“I’m sure. He came to see me last week.” A wave of tears was rising. “I hate him, Sara. After all the pain he caused me, now I hate him, and I hate myself for hating him. He’s gone through hell just like me, but I hate him.”

“Danny, don't stop your feelings. Let them free.”

He started crying. “Now he will destroy everything, disappear, leave me again. I can't let this happen. But he was here, Sara. And I rejected him. I asked him to leave.”

She was crying, too. “You need some time for yourself. Clear your mind. Sort your feelings out. Everything you’ve said is valid. Don't feel ashamed for hating him. You have every right to hate him now.” She wiped her eyes. “But he still loves you, Danny. Don't hide it from yourself. Don't pretend you don't know. Don't pretend it's over.”

It all came down to this. Facts were truths, not lies. He had hidden his own feelings for so long that now he didn't believe he could still feel something. Alex’s disappearance had had the effect of an emotional atomic blast on him: it had torn everything down and left a shell of his previous self. But he still loved him, he desperately wanted him, he was nothing without him.

“Take the time you need. But don't let him go. Don't fool yourself into thinking you don't deserve a second chance with him.” The baby on her shoulder started weeping. “I need to go now. But don't disappear on me. Answer my calls, goddammit. I love you, Danny.”

He wiped away his tears. “I love you, too.” 

Another week of hand wringing passed. He was still able to go through his routine as usual, but everything was different now. Every time he collected his mail, his hope revived. He wasn't ready to make the first move, but he desired with all his heart to get a message from Alex: he owed that to him. His naïve wish never came true, though. But night visits became a habit.

It all started on a Friday night: it was pouring and chilly. Danny had replaced the veranda with the living room: the fireplace was always burning, and he spent hours reading, until he surrendered to sleep, but just for a while. At 1 am sharp he heard a knock on the door and his heart sinking with it: “It’s him”, he thought, and flung the door open. Alex was still in mourning (but Danny would soon learn black was the only colour he wore now), respectful but resolute. “May I come in?” and that was that: he was back into his life. 

Alex happened to Danny again like a thunder striking always in the same place; he happened like a spell that can’t be lifted; he happened with a determination and an inescapability that accepted no prisoners. At first, Danny spent just a little time with him: he went to bed just after his arrival, to find him awake, waiting for him, the morning after. They spoke as little as possible, but both savoured the proximity of each other.   
The solid shock inside of Danny then started slowly to soften, like a feral animal getting used to human companions, to a caring touch, to trust. Alex asked nothing but to be there. He apparently slept just a couple of hours on the sofa, then, despite the cold, he spent his time in the veranda, reading Scottie’s spy books he found in the library. He was a broken man, stronger in body, hardened in will; the painfully shy boy he used to be still made some rare appearances but everything was different. He was more prone to physical contact, as to make sure what he was experiencing was real. His determination to reclaim a role in Danny's life was relentless.


	4. Chapter 4

Winter came, as his bones had predicted weeks before. Alex was visiting every weekend, getting to Hampstead Heath at 1 am sharp every Friday and leaving on Sunday night. Danny didn't know how he spent the rest of the week, but he knew he always stayed home. He didn't work and didn't really know what to do with his renewed life. Future was a void, for both of them, so they simply pretended it didn't exist.

They spent days in the same house, but not together. They didn't even speak much, but they were learning to know each other again. Fifteen years had left signs on the both of them. Alex noticed that Danny was his old self, only lankier; he hadn't seen him naked yet, but he knew his ribs were showing. On the other hand, Danny couldn't take his eyes off Alex, even if he tried his best not to show. He was more muscular than before, even stocky in the shoulder area, as Danny could infer from the way in which his t-shirts stretched there. 

He was able to control his behaviour and reactions but his defenses crumbled once asleep: Danny had started to dream differently since Alex’s return. Those dreams were invariably set abroad, in some Northern country, where the two of them took refuge after escaping death threats. It was an alternate version of the past, but filled with new desires. He often woke up hard, and he wondered if some intimacy would ever return. As he had told Alex on their second first encounter, he hadn't really touched anyone since his death. He had stopped going to bars, to parties, anywhere he could meet old acquaintances or someone new, because he didn't want to forget anything about that short happy time they had spent together. Cutting the world off was a desperate attempt to protect himself from pain and to protect the spark from the past that could still grant him an imitation of happiness. Alex was real, though, and Danny couldn't keep on playing the silence game out of spite. There had been no demands from him, no accuses, no recriminations: Alex was simply waiting. 

One night Danny was reading in the living room, while Alex was watching an old film, one of his favourites. “We’re both rotten,” Phyllis said on screen, and he couldn't repress a bitter laugh. 

“That's us,” he said.

“They're a bit more rotten than us,” Danny replied with a cheerful tone.

“But we're rotten enough, right?”

“We’re rotten just fine. That's why nobody else wants us. We're damaged goods.”

“Don’t say that,” Alex commented, now serious. “It's a lie. Nobody is damaged here.” He stood up and went into the kitchen.

Danny felt miserable. He realised his playful remark had gone sour as soon as he had said it. He followed Alex into the kitchen. He was sitting at the table, jaw clenched and resentful eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been an idiot. I shouldn't have said that.”

“But you still believe it, right? Do you really think we're damaged?”

“Of course not, but we have gone through so much! The past has left scars on us. It's not been easy, Alex.”

Alex didn't reply right away, but took his sweater off, revealing a web of scars on his shoulders, upper arms and chest. “Scars, you say? You don't know shit about scars, so please spare me your pity.”

Danny stared in disbelief. “What happened? What did they do to you?”

“No one did nothing. I did.”

It was horrible. The thought of cutting as a coping mechanism was too much to bear. Danny forgot all his good intentions, all his “Let's take one day at a time”, and fell on his knees in front of Alex, who was still sitting at the kitchen table.

“I had no idea. I’m so sorry. So sorry,” and kissed his left hand. He looked up to meet his eyes. “Can you forgive me? I’ve been such a jerk, but I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

They stood up at the same time. The veil of formality between them was finally torn. Danny was shaking when he took Alex's hands in his hands and kissed them. Alex took his face into his hands and kissed him. That kiss had become an obsession during the years they had spent apart: it was his first thought in the morning and his last before falling asleep. Life had been brutal with him, but the thought of Danny's kiss had never abandoned him.

“I’m damaged, I’m scarred but I love you,” he whispered before kissing again. Danny got lost in it, thinking he didn't want to leave that wetness ever again. Alex had changed so much, but his kissing hadn't: it was eager, impatient to make up for lost time. Danny stopped him for a moment to remove his own t-shirt. As Alex had imagined, his ribs did really show. 

“What happened here?”, Alex asked, concerned.

“I don't really like eating alone. I have a strange routine, and when I come back home at night, I don't feel like eating.” 

He was ashamed of his own body, but up to that moment who cared? He was slowly wasting away, but he was ok with that: there were not many reasons to be alive anyway.  
“I want to walk in the snow and not leave a footprint,” he joked, but inside he felt terrible. 

“Come here,” Alex said, and took him in his arms. “Now we are here. We're together. The nightmare is over. We're together.” 

Alex kissed Danny's hair, which were starting to turn grey. Fifteen years had gone and there was nothing either of them could do to turn back time. Danny touched his back, and he felt scars there, too.

“Can I?,” he asked tentatively.

“Sure,” Alex replied. “Welcome to the show.”

Danny was appalled. He looked closely at the intricate web of scarred tissue covering the upper body of his lover. His desperation, fury and anger turned inwards left speechless. Most of them were fine lines now, but others were deeper, bigger. He traced them with a finger, a terrible yet mesmerising cobweb. He left kisses on his arms, on his beautifully broad back, on his lips again. Alex's beard, now shorter, slightly scraped his face, but he loved it. 

Still lost, he finally heard him say: “Take me to bed, Danny. Make me feel human again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The film Alex is watching is "Double Indemnity" (1944) by Billy Wilder


	5. Chapter 5

In the master bedroom the air was warm, still, pausing. An antique gilded screen, taking up the wall opposite the door, reflected the lights of two lampshades turned down low. The bed had a paisley duvet cover and white sheets. Alex removed his black tracksuit pants, folded them and left them on a chair by the bed. His naked legs revealed more scars. Danny couldn't believe his eyes when he saw the word some of them composed on his left thigh.

“You wrote my name…” and words died in his throat. 

He was desperately sad, yet he finally had proof that Alex had suffered just like him, if not more. Holding grudges was ridiculous: he still loved him and still wanted to be loved. There was nothing Danny could say or do to object that truth - not the fear of losing control on his rigidly-organised life, let alone the fear for possible future disappointments. They were dripping pain and self-hatred but they were still alive, together.

“I had completely lost it,” Alex murmured, as if to apologise. “I’m not proud of this, but see? You were always on my mind.”

Danny couldn't have imagined the lengths Alex would have gone to show him love. And his name made of scars, though horrifying, was another truth. He sat on the bed; his trousers were still on and he had worn his t-shirt again. Alex was radiant in his nakedness, and showing the signs of years of pain made him even more so. On the other hand, he felt suddenly very self-conscious. He was withering. How could Alex still want him, a mere bag of bones? Yet, Alex knelt on the floor, in front of him, and splayed his legs open, so as to find space in between them. His hands rested on Danny’s skinny legs. 

“I had lost any hope that this could happen again,” and reached up to kiss Danny. 

He got down on his knees again and removed his black shorts. The gilded screen hazily reflected his body and cast a liquid shadow on his muscles. Danny stared at him as in a trance. 

“Are you afraid to touch me?” Alex asked his lover, and those were the words the other needed to hear. 

Danny moved to the floor and started kissing the dip between Alex's collarbones. His tongue filled that notch, leaving a trickle of saliva. 

“I’ve missed this so much,” and continued, leaving no place unkissed. 

The scarred skin had an irregular texture which he didn't mind; he wanted to learn by memory that new map, every line, every corner, every difference and shape. He could already smell Alex, the blend of salty musk and citrus that made his mouth water. He licked his lips and his right hand reached for Alex’s dick, already erected. He brushed his thumb on the shiny slit and put it in his mouth, sucking it. Alex was quivering under his touch, still kneeling but holding to the other, hands on shoulders.

“Are you this impatient?” Danny asked teasingly. “Someone here needs to be fucked.”

“Fucked quick. And hard,” Alex replied in a moan.

He obliged by tightening his fist around Alex's dick and starting to move it up and down. His left hand reached for Alex's ass and grabbed it. He wanted to take a handful of it all and push it down his throat, gorging on that beauty and desire.  
Alex’s knees slid open on the wooden floor, ass cheeks parted. Danny knew what he was being asked for, but the night had just begun. He left Alex partly unsatisfied, but in the meantime his right hand was pumping a dick ready to ejaculate. He could feel the veins on it, plump with blood, gathering nourishment and energy.  
Alex was lost in pre-orgasmic bliss, a dusky cloud where feelings, anticipation, thrill, tension and desperate need for release collided. Eyes closed, mouth half-open, the shadows leaving a golden gleam over his slightly wet skin. Danny’s left hand reached for Alex’s head and pushed it backwards, exposing his neck and the heavenly dip.  
While leaving another kiss there, his hand got wet. Alex was moaning, hastened breath, shaking arms still holding Danny’s shoulders. Danny raised his hand to his mouth to lick it and was joined by Alex. 

“Finally I’m not licking alone,” he commented.

“Someone has been nasty these years,” Danny teased. 

“You can't imagine. I had always had sex with you, but you were not there.”

“No one else?”

“No one.”

Still sitting on the floor, Alex reached out to grab Danny by the t-shirt - he was getting up. 

“Where do you think you’re going? We're not done here,” he said.

“I’m afraid we are,” Danny replied.

Alex stood up. The contrast between him - naked - and his lover - still fully dressed - made him almost hard again. He didn't let go of the t-shirt and pulled Danny near him.

“Tell me what's wrong. You want to leave and haven't got undressed yet.”

“That won't happen. I’m sorry, Alex, but I just can't.” Danny paused to look him in the eyes, then hid his face on the other’s shoulder, forehead resting on it. Alex took him in his arms.

“There's nothing to be worried about. That's ok. Everything will be ok.”

“Do you want to sleep with me?” Danny asked, still leaning in Alex’s embrace.

“And you’re even asking!” he smiled. “Let me take a shower and I’m with you.”

Danny saw him leaving the room and stood by the bed. He loved him so much, but hadn't said it yet. It seemed he couldn't really live what was happening there. He felt distant, as if it was happening to someone else. He wanted to feel himself, but he was afraid. Disappointment, abandonment, loneliness had shaped the last fifteen years of his life and he couldn't let them go. Not yet. Alex had terribly suffered but he had found his release just in being with him again. Danny felt the shock of his return was still solid in him and he held to it as a memento of sad years he had had control on. Most of his defenses were still up.  
Now alone, he could hear the water running in the shower. He got undressed and put on a new set of underwear, t-shirt and tracksuit pants. He was nervous, frustrated, angry at himself, in awe at Alex’s beauty and desire, eager for seeing more pleasure from him. Infinite times in his mind he had played Alex orgasming, but witnessing it couldn't compete with any memory. It was life, energy, liberation, hope. He felt his body still electric as if wired, tense, yearning. His own erection was subsiding, but he didn't feel sorry for himself. He sat on the bed and waited.


	6. Chapter 6

Danny was already in bed when Alex joined him. The air smelt like their favourite bath gel (incense and citrus), and it was imperceptibly buzzing, like after a storm. Alex was only wearing grey pajama pants, his buzzcut dripping water. He lay next to Danny and rested his head on the man’s shoulder. 

“There's my copy of 'Foundation' on your bedside table,” Alex commented.

“Yes. One of the few things I kept. I couldn't get rid of it,” the other replied. 

“Do you feel like talking about it? About anything?”

“Not tonight. I just want you to hold me.”

Alex got close to him, until he became his physical shadow, replicating the shape of Danny with his own body. That night had fulfilled most of his dreams, but something was off. Fifteen years apart had had a disruptive effect on them. Being together and realising they were still in love with each other was amazing, but it felt like starting over again. Danny relaxed in that warm embrace and felt a pang of desire in his stomach: Alex's body pressing on him was hard to resist, but he fell asleep before he could start fantasising on how to give him pleasure.

Weeks passed. A snow flurry hit London in late December. Rain fell copiously through the rest of the winter. Alex had moved in just after Christmas. He usually drove to Senate House around midnight, so he could take Danny home. They rarely went home right away, but had dinner somewhere near the river. They were building new habits and learning new routes in the city and into each other's hearts.  
They sometimes spent their weekends at Shirburn Castle, which was now open to the public; Alex had kept a wing to himself - just a couple of bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen and the living room with the fireplace. He was never happy to go to his family house, but the presence of Danny made things easier. At dusk, once visitors left, they liked walking through the hedge maze, which had been rebuilt after being set on fire many years before. The Ares statue was still there. 

They usually occupied the smaller bedroom, but one night Danny insisted on sleeping in Alex's room. He had memories so sad of that place, but was determined to dispel all the bad vibes from the past that were still haunting him. Much to his surprise, he realised that going into the loneliest room he had ever been in was actually not as bad as he had thought: it had been redecorated and now the atmosphere was relaxed. The wire canopy bed was still there (white sheets and matching duvet on it), like the marble statue of the child playing with a goose, set by the window; the massive Chinese chest of drawers had been removed and the yellow wallpaper had been replaced with one made of aqua brocade. It smelt like roses in there, and Danny realised Alex had actually asked the housekeeper to get the room ready, just in case.

They had spent the evening in the living room, by the fireplace, Alex doing crosswords and Danny watching a silly antiques programme on tv. After midnight Alex was already in bed, but Danny was still standing by the bed, in doubt on what to do. At one point, he started taking his t-shirt off. Alex saw him and put down the book he was reading. Danny removed his tracksuit pants, too, eyes always fixed on Alex, who soon got up and joined him on his side of the bed.  
Danny was sure Alex, the housekeeper, all the people living in Shirburn, even Sara and Pavel in Germany, could hear his heart beating. He had forgotten that feeling in the stomach, in the loins, that rush of adrenaline. Alex slowly brushed Danny's arms with his hands and left a kiss on his bony shoulder. Their hands and their lips locked. 

Not a lot had changed in Danny's mind since Alex's return, but now he felt less self-conscious. He had gained a bit of weight and he didn't hate himself as much as he used to, because he could see himself through Alex's eyes. He felt that the desperate need to belong had finally been fulfilled.

“I've missed you so much,” said Alex, pausing from kissing him. 

He felt a gush of gratefulness in his heart: Danny had finally made himself visible. The shock of their violent separation, the pain they had suffered, the aftermath of their reunion, were slowly turning into a thing of the past, a new past they were building together, day after day.  
That night Alex felt in charge. His kissing was ruthless. He pulled Danny's wavy hair and exposed his neck, tense muscles, blood visibly pumping through the jugular veins, bared flesh. He could tell his lover was nervous, which was ironic, because he had always been the most experienced of the two. This new balance excited him. His mouth left Danny's mouth and moved on to his chest, his back, his hands.  
Danny felt dizzy: he simply couldn't keep up with Alex, therefore he let himself go. He grabbed his round ass, though, making him moan. The pressure of his fingers on Alex's skin, the firmness of his flesh, were like a magnet. Even if he was almost hard, Danny was still keeping his shorts on, but when Alex asked if he was ready for him, he literally lost his mind and took them off, exposing his erection.

“Do you mean...”, Danny asked.

“I don't know what I mean. I don't know what I’m doing. I just know that I want to be the best fuck you’ve ever had,” the other replied with a voice of someone who was quickly losing control. 

Despite his eagerness, he took Danny in his arms and lay him on the bed. He swiftly removed his own shorts and went down on his lover. His lips wrapped around Danny's dick, but he wanted him to last long, so his tongue just did a short teasing. He splayed his legs open and took place between them. Now completely reclined on the bed whiteness, Danny wanted to die under those muscles; at the same time, he realised all his defenses were being torn apart. He didn't know how he felt about it, but there was no place for second thoughts in that room. He wanted Alex to tear apart every single piece of doubt he still kept in his heart; he was willing and ready to be cracked open.  
Then it happened: Alex's fingers pressing on his hole and slowly finding their way inside him. Fifteen years before Alex had been an incredibly talented student; one of his biggest regrets had been the interruption of their sex education sessions, but now he could see Alex remembered everything he had been taught. The pain he felt subsided when he relaxed into his touch. Fingers left him, soon replaced by Alex's dick. He penetrated him slowly, each time pushing a bit deeper. Alex kept his hands on Danny’s legs and never diverted his eyes from him. 

“Should I give you a mark for this?”, Danny joked in between moans.

“Not necessary. You’ll see the pupil has surpassed the master,” Alex replied. 

He didn't know that last word was a trigger for Danny, who, unable to stop the urge, grabbed his own cock and started stroking. Seeing his lover masturbating immediately went to Alex’s dick and made him push harder. Danny was splayed on the bed, eyes half-closed, head reclined and neck exposed. He still felt like a bag of bones, but he knew Alex loved him for him, and that was enough: he could live with this awareness and make things work. Feeling the familiar wave of pleasure building inside of him - a long-lost feeling - almost made him come, but at the same time he wanted to prolong the anticipation. During those years, giving himself pleasure had turned into a desperate exercise, so he had basically stopped attempting to experience, by himself, what only Alex could make him feel. Now everything was different and better. 

“God, you can't imagine how beautiful you are. If only I could give you an airtight…”. 

Alex didn't know that last word was another (recent) trigger for his lover: the idea of giving a blowjob while being fucked made Danny come. No little death had ever been more delicious that this.  
Seeing come strewn in ribbons on Danny’s belly almost stopped Alex, who wanted to have it all for himself. His orgasm was so near, though, that he just kept pushing, until he released himself into Danny. He cried with pleasure, waves of ecstatic electricity running through his body. Danny was lost in his own orgasm, back arched, hands grabbing Alex (now collapsed over him) by the waist. 

“We need to talk about trigger words.” Danny took a deep breath. “If you keep saying them, you’ll make me come without actually touching me.”

“And we don’t want it, right? I’m better than words.”

“Yes, you are,” Danny commented cheerily and kissed him.

Alex was now by his side. Danny mindlessly started stroking his buzzed hair. Alex whispered in his ear: “This is a trigger of mine. If you keep stroking my hair, I will be forced to start all over.”

Danny didn't stop.


	7. Chapter 7

Danny suddenly woke up from a nightmare. The light of the winter full moon cast long shadows in their room. He got up and went to the window. The hedge maze, the countryside, the rest of the castle, were quiet. He had dreamt of premature burials again, and wanted to leave that place as soon as possible. He was wondering if it was possible to leave in the very early morning hours, when Alex hugged him from behind.

“Have you got a visit from the ghost of my mother?” he joked.

“No, but I’ve dreamt of premature burials. I don't know what is worse.” He paused. “Tonight this place is giving me the creeps.”

“Do you want me to change the mood?” asked Alex, and reached for Danny’s dick.

“I can barely stand. Everything aches. I’m afraid I must decline,” Danny explained, and kissed his lover.

“Let's get back to bed, then. We’ll leave early tomorrow,” Alex promised.

Once in bed, he lay his head on Danny’s shoulder.

“I’d like to stroke your hair again, but it's better not to.”

Alex smiled.

“What happened fifteen years ago?” Danny ventured to ask for the first time.

After their reunion, he had accurately avoided talking about this because he was still in shock and had a hard time in believing Alex was alive for real. But now he wanted to know. Nothing would have changed the pain they had suffered, but he owed it to himself.

“They faked my death. Nobody knew, not even Frances. They took me out of the trunk where they had me locked that I was barely alive. I hated myself for being alive, for that fucking lie device, even for loving you. They moved me to the US and they kept me locked for years. I don't even know where I was, at first. Then I found out I was somewhere in the New Mexico desert. But knowing didn't make any difference. I was a prisoner.”

“What did they ask you to do?”

“I worked on the device for a long time. I don't want to talk about the rest. I’m still indictable for what I did. But no one will come for me.” Alex looked Danny in the eyes: “I imagined how desperate you were. And I felt terribly sorry for everything. I knew what they were doing to you, but couldn't stop them.”

“I know,” said Danny. 

“How are we now? What is going to happen to us?”

“We have picked up our broken pieces and tried to put them back together, haven’t we? What else can we do?”, Danny asked.

“I want to be with you. Live with you. I have already picked a ring for you. A family heirloom.”

Danny laughed. “You must be joking! I want no ring, especially if it's your mother’s.” He turned to Alex and caressed his face: “You don’t need a ring to show me love. I don't need it. Because I know you love me. As much as I know I love you.”

Alex leaned on him and kissed him. He had finally said it again. After months he had finally said it.

Once they went back to London, their routines settled. For someone who had had an eventful life, Alex enthusiastically embraced a totally uneventful new existence. He never got a proper job, but managed his family properties and finances, living below his allowance, caring for anything but his and Danny’s well-being.  
They never left the modernist house in Hampstead Heath: both of them grew attached to the isolation and the peace the house granted. He loved spending time there. He got to know its previous owner better and established a real connection with him. He discovered a large amount of personal letters hidden in a tin box in the basement and finally knew the pain Scottie had suffered all his life. Secrecy, lies, secrets, pretense and one love ruled his life, because he had no other choice. Alex spent long afternoons reading the letters, which contained desperate plans to meet each other, frustrated reactions for missed meetings, reports of threatened blackmailing, fear of exposure, until AIDS took the beautiful lover of Scottie away. He never told Danny about the letters. He couldn't have explained why he had become so interested in them: they told a story which could have been theirs. He realised they were just luckier than them, and Danny wasn't ready to face it. 

A short time after moving in with Danny, Alex threw his cutting set away. It still retained a twisted fascinating effect on him, but it was time to give the past a proper closure. Blades had always given him the illusion he could chase the pain away. They left a visible sign on his skin, but nothing really changed inside of him. That's why it had soon become a habit: pain, loneliness, frustrated sexual desire, were always there, and no blade, no cut could chase them away; so he tried again, to see if a new cut would make a difference. He often stood in front of the mirror to examine himself: he remembered everything - every scar, every tool used to make it, the healing time, the reasons and the circumstances. His pain had permanently changed his body, but he had no regrets. The painfully shy boy who used to go jogging on Lambeth Bridge, who was alone, closeted, isolated from the real world, had bled to death somewhere in the New Mexico desert. Who had emerged from the hemostasis phase? Whose new tissues had slowly gained strength and flexibility? Whose soul had taken abode in that broken body? He wasn't really sure he knew, so he stopped caring.


End file.
